


Identically Different

by compo67



Series: Punzel Verse [25]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Family Feels, Fights, M/M, Parenthood, Past Abuse, Poetry, Reconciliation, Relationship(s), Small Towns, Smut, Timestamp, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 17:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7447162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With him on the sidewalk and Tristan on the street, Jensen feels a few lines of a poem lift to the surface of his skin. But he catches the slight twitch to Tristan’s mouth. And holds back.</p><p>“Can I come over to your place tomorrow?” Tristan slips his helmet on as if ready to bolt if the answer disappoints. “I mean, you know, no pressure. I know I’m kinda like, yeah. Relying on you to set it up.” </p><p>It's got to happen: Jared's got to know. But how? When? In what moment? </p><p>And what will happen after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identically Different

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nina41884](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nina41884/gifts).



> last of my fic for the wonderful nina. <3

 

On their journey at Santa Monica Boulevard’s sidewalk sale, Tristan and Jensen dug through a dozen milk crates packed with vinyl.

Tristan left with a tote bag full of albums he claimed to be superior, even if their album covers were a little musty from water damage. Jensen hadn’t anticipated buying anything, more or less along for the adventure, but he ended up shelling out money for one album. Richard, the ex-corporate lawyer turned record store owner, wanted twenty dollars for a copy of Preservation Hall Jazz Band.

“I can’t believe,” Tristan reminds Jensen over garlic fries and hot dogs on the pier, “that you were about to pay Richard asking price for that record.”

Taking a long pull from his bottle of Coke, Jensen waves Tristan off. He then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re still on that?”

“It’s so obvious when you wanna swear but don’t because you’re still in dad mode.”

“I think you’re drunk.”

“I had _one_ beer.”

“And five shots of something else.”

“The fuck I did.”

“And who’s Miya gonna believe, huh?”

“Uh, the cutest one, duh.” Tristan shoves the rest of his garlic fries in his mouth, chewing loudly, scooting an inch closer to Jensen. “Thaf’me’oo’know.”

With a shove, Jensen cleanses himself of Tristan’s fatal garlic breath. It’s too hot to be taking a whiff of Tristan’s breath. At least the sidewalk sale had tents or fans set up. The shade out on the pier manages to remain as stubbornly hot and humid as standing in direct sunlight. Jensen’s once cold Coke weeps. He finishes it before it becomes hot, carbonated lava.

“Hey,” Tristan murmurs, collecting their trash. “Do you own a record player?”

“Jeff does.”

“What’s he play on it?”

“A lot of Streisand.”

“Oh, wow. I’m sorry.”

Jensen stretches before standing up. He swats off some sand and pebbles from his shorts, thankful Jared suggested switching from dark denim shorts and a black shirt to gray shorts and a light blue shirt. Though, Tristan’s sleeveless shirt looks so much more appealing as the sun rises higher and higher in the sky. “I don’t mind the Barb. It’s when he plays Jesus Christ Superstar that I get a little worried.” Hands on his hips, he surveys the pier and beach. “Where to now? Anymore shop keeps you wanna harass?”

Sunglasses on, Tristan huffs. “I didn’t harass Richard. He shouldn’t be charging that much for something that had a good press run. If you picked up Afro-Blue Impressions, then maybe I could see paying that much.”

“You just won’t let that go.”

“Hell no. I saw one sucker pay twenty bucks for a CCR record.”

“Maybe it was rare?”

“Man, you just don’t get vinyl, do you?”

“I’m not sure how I spent my Saturday morning digging through dirty milk crates, but,” Jensen strokes his chin, eyes narrowed, “I have this feeling I’ll never get those hours back.”

This morning started in chaos. Some terrible spirit rose from the pits of parenting hell and decided to make all three kids awake and cranky at six sharp--a full two hours before their normal weekend schedule. Jensen and Misha were the first responders to the scene, prying the girls away from each other as they battled over who got to wear the berets Grandma Hannah got them last week. Misha assured Jensen that every parenting book ever says that six years old is not too old to be grabbing hair and screaming. Jensen still questions--the piercing echo of Kaylee shrieking directly into his ear--that information.

Even Bailey rose from his bed with the intention of making everything extremely difficult for everyone else. He grabbed one of the berets and threw it, where it then landed behind the bookcase and neither of his sisters stopped crying until Jensen moved the bookcase and retrieved it.

When questioned on his action, Bailey admitted that he was sick of his sisters fighting over the beret and thought it was better to get rid of it.

Jensen and Misha couldn’t think of proper discipline right then and there, because honestly, they themselves were men on the edge. Bailey had to wait. The girls continued yelling. Suddenly, their parents weren’t fair. They weren’t nice. They weren’t treating them good. They weren’t paying attention. Why couldn’t they have the berets? Why couldn’t they have them and the other have something else? Where were Mommy and Papa?

Three grumpy children and two grumpy adults marched down the stairs half an hour later. It had been decided that no one got to wear the berets, because that’s what happens to children who can’t share or get along. Even the first and most logical option--each girl gets one beret--was thrown out the window. Literally.

Kaylee managed to grab both berets and fling them outside.

Breakfast didn’t go much better or smoother. Everyone was upset. No one wanted anything to eat, but everyone was still hungry. By the time Jared emerged, still exhausted from his catering gig the night before, it was clear to everyone that reinforcements were needed. Parents were not cutting it. Even Jeff was met with yelling from all three kids. No, they didn’t want to go to the park. Or, yes, they wanted to go to the park, why couldn’t they go to the park? Why did they always have to do what their siblings wanted to do?

Hannah and Linda walked in, twenty minutes later, and began evacuation.

Jared left for another catering gig on the other side of Santa Monica. Misha left for the library, to do conference calls there. Jeff invited Jensen to breakfast and then a modern re-telling of Hansel and Gretel, done in burlesque by an all-drag cast. It sounded interesting, especially the part where there would be no children involved in those plans, but Tristan had good timing when he texted, “What’s up?”

Holding his treasures from the sidewalk sale--albums, a potted bonsai Jensen helped him pick out, and a bag of apples--Tristan leads the way.

The pier never completely clears of tourists or regulars during daylight hours, but the unusually hot temperature for mid-August keeps the crowds down. It also means that every two steps, Jensen feels himself melting into nothingness. His sandals start to stick to his feet. Concerns arise over the durability of the deodorant he slathered on this morning. Tristan mentions something, but Jensen doesn’t entirely catch it. It’s too hot to listen. Words melt in the air.

Jensen’s mind wanders in an attempt to provide shelter from the heat.

This weather might be more tolerable if he was at home, in the backyard, lounging in the hammock under the two sturdy stone pine trees. He can picture it now: a cold hard lemonade in his hand, no shirt on, maybe Jeff’s record player on in the background. While he’s dreaming, he might as well add a cool breeze and the familiar scent of sunscreen.

Hell, he might as well picture Jared in the hammock with him, looking rested, mischievous, and lovely. There’d be that smile, that flash of dimples, and that tantalizing spark in his eyes. A hand on Jensen’s chest, his fingers would be tracing circles, occasionally stroking near--but not on--his nipples. Teasing, flirty, and affectionate, Jared would take sips from Jensen’s lemonade and kiss him right after. The kiss would be cool, crisp, and light at first. But Jared would arch into him, kissing deeper, coaxing Jensen’s mouth open. Their tongues would glide against each other, mimicking lower, rougher friction.

He’d have Jared on the hammock, settled in his lap, grinding down in between kisses and nips to Jensen’s lips. It would be them, the heat of the day, and the storm building between their bodies. Jensen would have his hands firm and possessive on the firm, round, swell of Jared’s ass. Somehow, their shorts would disappear, and while Jensen groped Jared’s pert and curvy hips, their cocks would meet. He’d feel the slight tremble of Jared’s hips on that first, seductive grind.

Jared’s pink, lush mouth would open and let out the most maddening, breathy moan.

It’d be so damn hot outside.

The ropes on the hammock would tighten with the shift of their weight. Steadying himself, Jared would reach back, lube magically appearing out of nowhere, not a condom in sight. Hard enough to fulfil every romance writer’s wildest fantasies, Jensen would ache against Jared’s ass, the head of his cock grazing against his tight muscle. The first push causes Jensen to ache all over, famished and starved. Jared is all pure pressure and heat. He opens for Jensen in a series of twists of his hips, accompanied by shuddering gasps.

He’d fuck Jared slow at first, following his lead, basking in the gorgeous view. Baking cupcakes all summer has not only boosted Jared’s confidence, but there’s a little more weight on him. It’s settled on his ass, thighs, and middle--everywhere Jensen loves to squeeze and grope. His hair has grown long, worn swept up most of the time, but Jensen would fuck him hard enough to make his hair fall out of its tie.

Sharp, rough, and voracious, Jensen would pick up the pace, fucking Jared open. He’d listen carefully to the sudden sighs of, “Harder, Jen, fuck me harder--please, oh, fuck, please, please, please…”

This wouldn’t be the best position or place to fuck Jared as hard as they’d like, but Jensen would adapt. He’d piston and roll his hips, thunderous, one hand twisted in Jared’s hair. Pulling just enough to make Jared cry out, feverish and excited. The sound of Jensen’s balls slapping against Jared’s ass would fuel them. Jared’s cock would leak all over Jensen’s middle, and the walls of him would clench, release, clench, release, clench, clench, clench…

He’d fuck a flood out of Jared.

Hard enough to make a mess.

And again.

And again.

Jared would come on Jensen’s cock until he was crying and begging for more.

Licking the tears away from Jared’s cheek, bringing him in for a rough kiss, Jensen would push both of them to their limits. One hand on Jared’s ass, the other in his hair, Jensen comes inside Jared, bare, uninhibited. He’d fill Jared up, spurt after spurt, all while biting down on Jared’s bottom lip. His fingers would dig into Jared’s ass, making marks for later, reminding him of exactly what they did.

“Dude, c’mon.”

“What…?” Jensen drops his album on the street.

Tristan shakes his head and motions to his scooter. “We’re heading to my place, remember?”

Tomatoes could not be brighter than Jensen’s face. And his cock could not possibly be harder in his shorts. It gives an unhelpful jolt when his eyes focus on Tristan.

What does _that_ mean?

“I-I uh… hey, why don’t we walk?” Jensen blurts out, picking up his album and strategically, with all the stealth he possesses, holds it over his crotch. “It’s not that far. I could use the exercise. Yeah. I’m walking.” Except, he’s not. At least not for a minute or so until the downtown rush hour in his shorts calms the fuck down.

Leaning against his scooter, Tristan eyes Jensen.

“You’ve been to my place before, you know it’s like three miles from here.”

“Then it’ll be a good three mile walk.”

“...uh huh.”

“Yep.”

“Have you ever thought of letting my brother fuck you?”

If Jensen were drinking any liquid at the moment, he would’ve spit it out, choked on it, and possibly died from even more embarrassment. Liquid-less, his instinct settles for him choking on his own spit. Coughing and sputtering, he waves Tristan away, struggling to regain the ability to breathe. A hole in the earth does not appear by the time he can somewhat croak out a response.

“No?! What the hell, why are you asking _that_?”

With a shrug, as if he asked what Jensen which route would be faster, Tristan comments, “Ehh, just wondered. I mean, you were probably fantasizing about sex with my brother just now.”

This would be a good time to deny everything and flee.

But Jensen’s feet don’t move. His mouth doesn’t open to reply, either, but he can only handle one thing at a time.

Tristan laughs and pockets his keys. “Okay, I can see that some of us aren’t as outspoken about sexual intercourse as I am. We can take a cab. But you’re paying.”

There’s still a chance to flee.

He could try really hard to develop the power of invisibility. The kids seem to succeed at that sometimes, especially in large crowds of people in public places.

Jensen climbs into a cab, the album over his lap.

Damn.

 

Tristan’s place could be mistaken for a decent apartment.

It’s an improvement from the place in Anaheim. However, Jensen has a sneaking suspicion that it looks so neat because Tristan’s barely there. Between working two jobs, volunteering at the hospice, and pursuing an it’s complicated status with Miya, it’s a wonder the one bedroom place ever sees any use.

For an hour, Jensen indulges his host and listens to the sidewalk sale finds. Most of it’s jazz, which Jensen has no problem with, except he’s more in the mood for lyrics. For one, picking apart lyrics keeps his mind occupied and away from more distracting, less appropriate thoughts. Lyrics also discourage conversation. Jensen will gladly talk about anything but what Tristan asked before, but he’d rather not take the chance of being asked again, so silence between them remains the better option.

Alan taught Jensen to keep personal matters private.

It may have slightly contributed to Jensen’s more introverted nature.

Finally, Tristan puts on Jensen’s album. Lively, New Orleans-style jazz brightens up the living room. A vocalist croons out the first song smooth and effortless. With his eyes closed, Jensen sinks into the music and his method for memorizing lines. New Orleans jazz started it all. The cornet or trumpet leads, confident and distinct. Big band marches, ragtime, and blues harmoniously mesh together. When the trumpet pauses, it’s often the piano that lifts and carries the tone, playful and inviting.

But this vocalist outshines every instrument, even the expertly played cornet.

“He’s got fuckin’ fantastic range.” Tristan knocks a bottle of water against Jensen’s knee. “You sure you don’t want somethin’ else to drink?”

Jensen shakes his head. “Nah, thanks though. I do have to get back home… eventually.”

Joining Jensen on the couch, Tristan takes a variety of pills with a few swigs of water. “I like that ‘eventually’ there. You know you can always crash here.”

“Yeah,” Jensen murmurs, softer than he means to.

“What?”

“What, what?”

“You sounded… off just now.”

So Jared came up in their conversation earlier. And yes, it wasn’t in the most comfortable of contexts for Jensen. But Tristan brought him up. Any time Jared manifests in their conversations, Tristan typically starts it. Jensen used to hold back out of consideration. But it seems less and less necessary to do so.

“I wish,” Jensen starts, looking at the water bottle in his hands, “that I could extend the same offer to you.”

After a long few seconds, Tristan reaches out to the coffee table and dials back the volume.

He ended up in Santa Monica a few months into treatment. Anaheim had resources, but they didn’t have the proximity of his brother. HIV scared him into closing their physical distance. Tristan will say he moved in case he ever needed a blood transfusion, Jared would be able to donate. Jensen always heard the real reason in between the rationalized explanations and never demanded or required them to be verbalized. It’s always been enough for Jensen to know that receiving a positive status scared the shit out of Tristan.

HIV inspired a move, a lifestyle change, and some god damn direction, as Tristan had put it.

But it’s been years.

Jensen remains surprised that in all this time, Jared and Tristan never once ran into each other. Sure, Santa Monica is a fairly big place, and there’s a difference in the activities of someone without three kids and someone with. Still. Jensen knows Tristan has purposefully stayed low profile.

Tristan sighs. “I… guess I’ve put you in kind of a tough spot, huh?”

“Little bit, yeah.”

“Thanks though.”

“None needed,” Jensen replies, opening his bottle of water. “But I’m just… worried. Nervous. Anxious. Whatever other synonyms. First, I hate not really telling anyone at home where I’ll be or who I’ll be with.”

“You’re allowed to go out and have some fun.”

“Yeah, but I’m responsible for three kids. If someone needs me, I want to be able to be there.”

“Alright.”

“The next thing, and I guess the most pressing thing, is that Bailey’s involved now. And that… I can’t ignore that.”

Looking up at the ceiling, Tristan takes a deep breath in and out. “...has he asked about me?”

Honesty sucks. “No. But look, there’s a lot going on right now with the kids. They’re starting the first grade in a couple of weeks, and with me and Jared being in school, plus the guys’ schedules, shit is stressful.”

New Orleans continues to filter out of the record player speakers. Another vocalist, this time with the gravel and character of Louis Armstrong, leads the band. The pull of the music creates an itch in both of them. Practice last week had been cut short by Tristan being called in for an extra shift at Freddy’s. No one could blame him, and they stayed after he left to continue, but it wasn’t the same. Although Jensen is their lead vocalist, Tristan runs the band, and often leads it with his cornet.

Fingers tapping on the couch, Tristan mulls something over for a moment. He then glances over at Jensen. “It was so… surreal, meeting the little guy. Weird, but not, bad weird.”

“Felt the same when he was born.”

“Yeah, bet it did.”

“Hey.” Jensen scoots over to close some of the distance between them. “We all need to move forward here, for multiple reasons, so it’s not gonna do us much good if we hang onto the past. You want a relationship with Jared, then you’re gonna have to push yourself _and_ him towards that.” Relaxing his body language, Jensen bumps their shoulders together. “I’m here to help.”

Tristan rolls his eyes. “Man, when we first started hanging out, you barely spoke more than three words together. Now look at you, Dr. Phil over here.”

“Dude.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

 

One walk around the block and another cab ride later, and they head back to Santa Monica Boulevard. Lyrics bounce around in Jensen’s head the entire time.

He makes a statement before parting ways with Tristan.

“I need more range.”

“Range in what?”

“Vocal range.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“I’m just… not there yet.”

“If you think so.”

Looking directly at Tristan, Jensen confirms his statement. “You’ve got range. If I don’t work on mine, I’ll never be equal in sound.”

Tristan smiles, his helmet in hand, and lets out a small laugh. “Well, alright. Maybe that record was worth twenty bucks.”

With him on the sidewalk and Tristan on the street, Jensen feels a few lines of a poem lift to the surface of his skin. Words practically form tattoos on the inside of his arms. He could recite them and place the words out there in the world--free to their audience to do with what they please. It’s second nature to convert blood ink into oxygen.

But he catches the slight twitch to Tristan’s mouth.

And holds back.

“Can I come over to your place tomorrow?” Tristan slips his helmet on as if ready to bolt if the answer disappoints. “I mean, you know, no pressure. I know I’m kinda like yeah. Relying on you to set it up.”

New Orleans jazz in his hands, Jensen nods.

It’s going to take hard work to develop his voice to a level that adequately matches Tristan’s trumpet.

That’s nothing, though, in comparison to the work ahead of him.

 

Grandma Hannah and Grandma Linda leave remarkably unscathed.

There’s a small dab of nail polish on Hannah’s dress, but she assures Jensen it’s no trouble at all. He offers to have it dry cleaned and she laughs, then pats him on the shoulder.

“I’ll put it on your tab,” she says, leaning in for a peck on the cheek. “Did you have a good time with your friends?”

His mother holds the same opinion of Tristan that she held for Jared way back when: he seems like a very nice person who has been through a field full of shit. Most of the details about Tristan and Jared’s relationship has remained between Jared and Jensen, but it’s no secret between the adults in their household that Mommy prefers not to speak of or refer to his brother.

Kaylee runs out the door, breezing past Jensen and Hannah, and leaps into Linda’s arms.

“I’m going home with Grandmas!!!” Kaylee latches onto Linda like an ancient sea crab. As if her announcement and attachment to Linda isn’t enough, she adds, “AND I’M GONNA STAY THERE FOREVER.”

There may not be more dedicated, affectionate, or loving grandmothers on Earth.

But Jensen definitely sees the brief flash of horror in both women’s eyes.

“Nice try,” he calls out to Kaylee. “But I think Grandmas deserve some peace and quiet.”

And some time away from the wiggly, sometimes sticky, often pointy limbs of six year olds. Kaylee defies gravity. Linda gives up her attempt at making sure Kaylee doesn’t fall.

“What do I owe you for today?” Jensen takes out his wallet. “I mean, this was a rush job.”

Patting his wallet, Hannah shakes her head. “I’ll pass on the cash today. You can take us out to dinner next week though. We’re leaving for Boston on Friday. Then you can catch me up.”

The exchange of hugs and kisses goodbye occurs with minimal tears from either Jensen or Kaylee. He holds her in his arms so she can be tall while waving goodbye to the Grandmas. The second their car disappears from view, she transforms into a boa constrictor. She wraps her arms around his neck for a hug and squeezes hard.

“I missed you, daddy.”

No doubt she senses the second his heart melts.

“I missed you too, kiddo.”

“We went to the park.” He carries her inside, perched on his right arm, leaning into him. Small fingers clasp around his shirt collar. “And I climbed the tree the highest. Daddy. The highest. An’ after that, I ran around the sandbox the fastest. Hailey tried to beat me but I won. An’ you know what Bailey did? Daddy? Daddy. Bailey just sat there! Like a bump on a… uh… on a frog!”

Most of their daily news comes from Kaylee. She narrates, the adults listen. Sometimes, after sifting through the information important to a six year old, they gain some insight into their social group. Although the girls are identical twins, they never exclude Bailey.

What concerns Jensen now, however, is Bailey excluding himself.

Nose to nose with Kaylee, he asks, “You think Bailey didn’t feel so well today?”

Bright hazel eyes meet his. “Maaaaybe. GramHan said it was hot. But I didn’t feel hot. Daddy, did you know, did you know that if you punch someone right here…” She points to his nose. “They could _die_?!”

A little disturbed, Jensen changes subjects, filing away _that_ factoid for later. He carries her upstairs, to the kids’ room, where Jared holds court with the rest of their young. “Why don’t we see if we can catch some fireflies later, huh?”

“I LOVE CATCHING FIREFLIES!” Kaylee leaps out of Jensen’s arms, landing on the floor with the poise and invulnerability of an Olympic gymnast. “MOMMY! GUESS WHAT!”

“NO,” Hailey shouts back, “I’M TALKING TO MOMMY!”

“NO, ME!”

“I WAS HERE FIRST, KAY!”

“SO?!”

“SO!”

“SO?!”

“SO!!! SO!!!”

Jared and Jensen don’t actually get to talk to each other until three hours later, after preparing and eating dinner, after washing the dishes, after supervising some firefly catching the involves teaching Hailey not to pull off wings and assuring Bailey that they will not turn into spiders, after chasing all three children through the living room and up the stairs for bed, after getting three not-tired-not-sleepy-why-bed-why-not-more-play children through their nighttime routine, after coaxing each child to physically get into bed by promising story time, after two stories, after adjusting each child in their beds once they pass out, after turning on the monitor on the dresser, after closing the door, and after flopping onto their own bed.

“It could be worse,” Jared mumbles into his pillow. “I could’ve had four.”

“No way.”

“Five.”

“Don’t,” Jensen groans into his pillow. “That’s called tempting fate.”

“Six.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Eight,” Jared laughs. “It’s been done.”

“Shut your mouth.”

“Why don’t you make me?”

“I can. It’s time I teach you a lesson.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

No one moves.

At all.

Until Jared weakly reaches out for Jensen. His hand lands on Jensen’s shoulder. “There,” he sighs. “That was pretty good for me, how was it for you?”

Jensen snorts. “You rocked my world.”

Thoughts of the hammock linger in Jensen’s mind. They could, in theory, sneak outside with their monitor, and climb into the hammock. The guys won’t be home for a little while. Tomorrow’s Sunday, so no homework assignments or projects are due. It seems like stars have aligned to make Jensen’s daydreams come true, with a few small edits.

But he’s been up since… some time before noon. Far too early to properly remember.

“Hey,” Jared murmurs, squeezing Jensen’s shoulder. “Thank you for letting me sleep in today.”

Bones, muscles, and individual hairs ache. But Jensen manages to smile. “Sure thing.”

Their bed smells like the memory of sex and the presence of vanilla. They probably should’ve changed the sheets two days ago, when they had enough energy to indulge, but that required effort. It was far more appealing to switch sides of the bed for the night. Jensen slept in the wet spot, proud of making it happen in the first place.

Not yet nine, it’s too early for moonlight to slip past their window and soften their shadows.

Jared’s eyes glimmer in the dark anyway.

“You have a good day?” Jensen scoots closer, feeling a faint sense of deja vu from earlier.

“Ehh… Lorna forgot her piping bags. Someone complained we were cheating them out of frosting. It was hot as fuck. I was like, ‘Bye, y’all’ the second I got there.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Mmph.” Jared moves slightly, just enough to tilt onto his side. The silhouette of his hips carves the most alluring shape. “What’d you do?”

The answer bangs against the front of Jensen’s teeth, ready for dispatch. But his jaw refuses the request for departure. He can’t just blurt this out. This has to involve tact and sensitivity. Multiple relationships are at stake here and he’s not going to half-ass it.

Unfortunately, he didn’t exactly have much time to think about this conversation over the course of the evening.

Sitting up, Jensen runs a hand through his hair.

Poetry escapes him.

Definition and grit--he needs to add those to his vocal skills. Length, too. He can’t be afraid to stretch out words or expand his diaphragm. _It’s so damn hot outside. I feel like I could die. Got those sweat drops in my eyes._ He’s got to work in woahs and ooohs in there, naturally, until he no longer needs to listen to others to learn. _Oh, but Halloween. We’ll feel the breeze back again. Oh, Halloween, oh Halloween. We’ll bring back all our friends and we’ll be coming home._

Jazz--at its purest--serves as an ambassador.

Singing should be done with an open larynx. Steady breathing, not from the ribs, but from a place much deeper. Modify. Relax. Expand. Sink into the bass. Float with the drums. Match the push and passion of the trumpet.

_Oh, Halloween, everyone will surely have a ball, ‘cause sweet New Orleans in the fall is enough… to make you cry._

The rhythm accelerates, though the tone remains on the side of bittersweet. Drums build tension. The piano introduces blues, mythic and articulate. Every single instrument follows and the song reconstructs itself into something more complex and haunting.

“I need to tell you something.”

“Hmm? What is it?”

“I’m friends with your brother. I… I’ve been hanging out with him. I saw him today.”

 _I’m a French Quarter hustler, I don’t have to work. Listen all you rounders, you better leave my woman alone. Yodelay, yodelay._ The trumpet punctures, expertly, surgically.

Jared sits up and matches Jensen’s pose.

Silence.

Not a word. Not a lyric. Not a noise.

Disappointment and hurt reflect in Jared’s expression, which require no sound.

Expectations rise to the surface of Jensen’s skin. He’s gone through this scene a thousand times in his head--Tristan admitted the same--and still, his breathing pauses in wait. Shouldn’t he know by now, shouldn’t he know Jared at least as well as he knows himself?

The exact opposite reaction occurs. Any spark or tell of emotion vacates Jared’s eyes. Shut down and closed off from Jensen in every aspect, Jared’s voice tears through the silence. Brisk and cutting, it inhabits another planet entirely than the one he uses to speak to Jensen when they’re laying in the bed they share.

“When exactly did this start?”

They’ve fought. They’ve pushed each other’s buttons. They’ve had to give each other space in fear of making whatever situation they were in worse. Arguments between them have touched on every subject: sex, romance, communication, personal wants and needs, their kids, their lives before Storybook Canal. There have been misunderstandings and miscommunications and simple things like, I asked you to not or please, I told you to do this. More than once, Misha and Jeff have provided insight, or the Grandmas were consulted for good measure.

Jensen struggles with his words. “Uh, maybe like, six months back.”

Not a bed spring squeaks as Jared moves from the center to the edge. Another stretch of boreal silence blankets the space between them.

Jared stands up and places a hand to his forehead.

“I’ve never been disappointed by you before,” Jared states, his tone as bleak and sharp as it started. “I cannot believe you would spend time with someone who hurt me, and on top of _that_ , not even have the decency to tell me.”

“I know, it sucks, I’m sorry…”

“You’re sorry?” Narrowed eyes burn cold. “I guess the next thing you’re gonna tell me if that Tristan wants to come over for dinner and just ‘chill.’”

“It’s not… look, it’s not like that.”

In one swift motion, Jared grabs his pillow. “Don’t--not right now. Whatever reason you think you have--don’t.”

“What are you doing?” The question jumps from Jensen’s mouth even though his eyes assess the answer. “Hey, at least let me sleep downstairs…”

They’ve never slept apart. Never really gone to bed mad or frustrated.

One by one, the words drop.

“ _The moon has nothing to be sad about. Staring from her hood of bone. She is used to this sort of thing_.”

And the door closes.

 

Hailey enjoys studying bugs.

Each one has a different personality. If any of their children enjoy digging through soil to explore the importance of worms to plants, it’s Hailey.

There were a few lessons every adult in the house shared with her. No worms at the table. No ants at the table, either. Nothing with more than two arms and two legs at the table. No beetles, either. No live or dead bugs in pockets. Be careful with bugs, because they’re delicate, and carrying a worm like that through the house will result in an unhappy and unfortunate end for the worm. Bugs stay outside, because they like outside. The ones that get in the house can be dealt with… in a few different ways, but always by an adult.

Jeff’s father collects species of beetles and was more than happy to sponsor a trip to an insect exhibit at the kids’ museum earlier this summer. It was reported that Hailey begged to live there, while her siblings begged to leave.

One of the more unfortunate outcomes of that trip, besides ants on the dinner table and deceased worms cried over then held tiny funerals for, was a set of fake insects purchased at the gift shop. Misha assured everyone that Hailey would lose interest in them, preferring to study the real deal with Jensen at the garden or with himself in the backyard.

After a night of shit sleep, Jensen wakes up to a fake spider on his face.

He knows it’s fake because Jeff hot glued sequins to a good majority of them. He can’t stand spiders or anything that skitters across the floor, but they seem more tolerable with sequins.

Removing the spider and tossing it onto his nightstand, Jensen concentrates on cutting off the connection from his mind to his body. Everything hurts, but he doesn’t need or want to feel it. A persistent, heavy weight settles on his chest and gnaws its way down towards his ribcage. A few deep breaths doesn’t provide any relief. He tosses and turns a few more times before sitting up and surveying the room.

Hailey must have snuck in on her own.

Jensen brings his knees up to his chest. Glancing over at the flashy spider yields no epiphanies, revelations, or divine interventions.

Crap is still crap is still crap.

Instinct pulls at Jensen to curl up in bed and ignore everything for another few hours. Parenthood yanks him out of bed.

“DADDY,” Kaylee shouts, running down the hallway, “BREAKFAST! BREAKFAST!”

Hailey chimes in, unafraid to match her sister’s volume. “IT’S READY! DADDY!”

Bailey’s absence concerns Jensen, but he can’t blame the kid for staying downstairs with Jeff, where it’s relatively quiet. From a quick glance at the living room, followed by a look at the driveway, it’s clear that Jared and Misha have both gone out. Together or separate, Jensen doesn’t know, and he’s not given much time to think anything over. The girls climb their way onto Jensen’s lap and demand his attention. They don’t care that his eyes are bloodshot, his breath stinks, and he’s got dried drool in the stubble on his chin.

And no one seems to know anything about the state of affairs between him and Jared.

“Leeshaun and Taylor are on their way over,” Jeff rumbles, serving scrambled eggs to the kids. “They’re gonna keep the kids entertained in the yard--Kay, I saw that, hands out of your mouth--and you.” He points the wooden serving spoon at Jensen, making direct eye contact. “And I, are gonna have a long, heart to heart talk.”

Great.

Jensen nods and reaches for the cup of coffee already on the table for him.

 

As they sit in the living room, Jeff takes a deep breath.

It didn’t take Jensen very long to fill him in. He was straightforward and honest about his relationship with Tristan. When Tristan sought him out at the park that day, he didn’t rebuff the offer of potential friendship, even though he’d seen firsthand how he had treated Jared in Anaheim. And yeah, there were plenty of times throughout his and Jared’s relationship where he could see the scars of that hurt.

What convinced him to try with Tristan was incredibly simple.

He looked lonely.

Based on Tristan’s prior personality and way with words, Jensen didn’t think they stood much of a chance at being friends. The history between them was complicated. But one Wednesday turned into two, which turned into three, which then turned into more.

Sitting forward, Jeff taps his chin, then turns to Jensen.

“I’ve sat through _Cleopatra_ three times,” he admits. “And this is ten times worse.”

“Elizabeth Taylor doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

With a roll his eyes, Jeff grumbles, “Have you learned nothing? Ugh, I can’t even deal with that right now.” He runs a hand through his peppery hair and looks at Jensen again. “Really, though? Nothing? The plot line was a lumbering wreck, the dialogue laughable, and Liz looked absolutely wrecked…”

“...can we get back to helping me figure out how to fix things with Jared?”

Sounds of laughter and excited squealing echo out from the backyard. Leeshaun brought over a pair of platform shoes for the kids to teeter on. Taylor brought a copy of _The Bridges of Madison County_ to pine over in between making sure to watch out any activities that might result in a broken ankle. Last spring, the kids inadvertently helped Taylor ask Leeshaun out. And, as Leeshaun has put it before, “Our queer, black, fabulous love blossomed after that.”

Now that they’re an official couple, Taylor has offered to babysit on account that Leeshaun wants kids and he wants them to get an idea of what they’re getting into.

The experience might be a little skewed. Triplets. Co-parenting. Part-time drag queen. Cupcake master. Those are just some of the ways to describe their household.

Jeff shakes his head. “This is tough, Jensen. Even for me.”

Sighing, Jensen slumps forward and matches Jeff’s posture. He can go to Hannah for some advice and perspective on this, but he fears she’ll have the same response. Jeff already acknowledged that Jensen has to apologize. But how? And how does he get Jared to listen? This isn’t just, ‘I forgot to pick up one of the kids from their play date’ kind of argument. It’s not even a going to bed angry fight--it’s worse.

One perfectly polished boot nudges against Jensen’s sneaker.

“But not impossible,” Jeff declares. “C’mon, let’s turn on the sprinkler and let the kids run through it until they pass out for a nap.”

“How’s that gonna help?”

“It’ll free up Leeshaun and Taylor.”

“So?”

Standing up, with his hands on his hips, Jeff scoffs, “If one queen solving a problem is good, then three queens together will be _fabulous_.”

 

The first thing Leeshaun says has something to do with Jensen’s ass.

Jeff tries to get them back on track. His attempt works about as well as Taylor’s attempt at getting the kids to run through the sprinkler one at a time.

“How could anyone be mad at you with that cute bubble butt?” Leeshaun’s eyes linger. “Oh, honey, you could do me wrong all night long.”

“Easy,” Taylor sighs. “Besides, you said my butt’s the cutest.”

“It is, sugar. It so is. But I can window shop.”

“Huh. You say that and then I foot the bill.”

“Oh, please, Tay. I’m not suggesting that this slice of vanilla cake join in on our chocolate torte.”

“Well, at least Jensen’s nice.”

“So you _do_ think he has a really cute butt?”

“I said he’s nice. I didn’t say anything about his butt.”

“Saying another queer man is nice is saying he has a cute butt.”

“Do you hear yourself talk?”

“I do, and if more people listened to Leeshaun Tight, they’d be much happier.”

“I’ll let you tell it.”

“DADDY BAILEY PUSHED ME!!!” Hailey’s high-pitched scream interrupts any and all adult conversation on the patio. All four adults rush over to assess the damage. Everyone is upset. Hailey is crying because Bailey pushed her. Bailey is crying because Hailey said something about his bathing suit. Kaylee is crying because Jeff turned off the sprinkler. Three wet, upset, cranky six year olds resist reconciliation and refuse to go inside until Jeff administers The Dad Voice.

Half an hour later, Jeff takes over the kids. Jensen tries to help, especially when Bailey starts yelling about how unfair everything is and that he didn’t do anything wrong. Unfortunately, the kids take Jensen getting involved as some kind of parental ambush and refuse to calm down.

“Talk to the guys,” Jeff assures Jensen. “I got it up here for now. But if you hear a loud thud, there’s a coup underway.”

A text sounds out from Jensen’s pocket as he heads down the hallway. He hopes to find something from Jared. Anything. Even one of those damn emojis Jared sends in some kind of code for Jensen to figure out. But no, it’s a text from Antonio asking him to close up the gardens later tonight at around seven. It’s not a problem--Jensen texts back at the bottom of the stairs.

With his phone tucked away, he walks into the kitchen to find Leeshaun on his phone. Taylor looks over Leeshaun’s shoulder, an expression of concern on his face.

“You two okay?”

“Not entirely.” Leeshaun passes his phone over to Taylor. “My sister’s having a tough time. I told her to quit that job over at the hospital.”

“What’s she do?”

Hands up in the air, Leeshaun grumbles, “She’s the damn Hospital Director! I told her, you want a life full of stress and misery, take the damn job. She should’a stayed a nurse like yours truly.”

Taylor sighs. “Every day you complain about how stressed and miserable you are from work.”

“Yes, but that’s because my doctors are all incompetent fuck puppets. You know how close they get to killing my patients every day just because they think they’re too fuck all important to take _two_ minutes to read a chart? Hello. Yep. Y’all lucky there are nurses like me around.”

Jensen serves them all lemonade and takes out a platter of fruit and cupcakes. Their fridge has been constantly stocked with cupcakes since Jared started his catering certification. This week’s, that they’re still working through, are a pineapple concoction. Everything’s sweet, and while Jensen typically goes for the salty stuff, the chaos he’s in warrants two cupcakes.

“So.” Getting down to business, Leeshaun sits on the barstool at the island and looks directly at Jensen. “You and your boo are fighting.”

Nodding, Jensen chews through a mouthful of cupcake. “Yeah.”

“Never heard of the two of y’all fighting before,” Taylor comments. He helps himself to a cupcake and apple slices. “What’s the run down?”

Between bites of cupcake and gulps of lemonade, Jensen tells the awful truth: he kind of sort of has been hanging out with Jared’s estranged twin brother for the past few, maybe more, months and now Tristan wants back in on Jared’s life. Except… there’s a few good reasons why they’re estranged, and Jensen never ignored that, but he didn’t turn Tristan away either when he asked to be friends.

“He just looked so fucking lonely,” Jensen admits with a shake of his head. “And he’s also been through a lot. I mean… he’s HIV positive.”

Leeshaun beats Taylor to the question. “Does bae know?”

“No.”

The couple exchanges a glance. It’s the kind of glance Jensen would swap with Jared whenever they just knew one of the kids was going to act up.

After a deep breath, and another bite of cupcake, Leeshaun speaks.

“Look, you had your reasons, and bae had his. Y’all have to respect that. Bae can’t--or shouldn’t--tell you who you can be friends with. But honestly? Make brother dude work for it. He hurt your bae and that’s real. Make sure bae knows you got him. That’s what’s important.”

“And let him handle it,” Taylor adds. “Don’t set up anything on your own. Center this around Jared, not Tristan. Cause as much as you two sound like good friends, he’s not the mother of your children.”

“Not that, not the man who helps pay your bills, not the man who takes care of you when you got a cold, not the man who does your laundry, and not the man who goes to sleep with you at night.”

Hesitant, Jensen asks, “I tried to apologize. It didn’t exactly work. So what now?”

Once again, Leeshaun and Taylor exchange The Look.

Leeshaun reaches across the island and places his hand over Jensen’s. He gives a squeeze.

“It’s going to take time. Make peace with that, but don’t stop having his back.”

\---------------------------------------

Jared had to get away from the house and from the sight of cupcakes.

His first suggestion to Misha was for them to go to the pier or just drive around in circles all over Santa Monica--that last option would at least ensure Jared could scream all he wanted.

Instead, Misha won out by insisting on a spa day at the beach club.

It’s been somewhat of an effort to spill all the details while being submerged in mud and seaweed, but Jared has managed. So far. Ten minutes more in the mud bath and they’re off for a warm rinse followed by massages.

“I could not believe him. At all. What did he think he was doing, hanging out and being all buddy-buddy with my brother? I mean… why?! Why on Earth would that seem like a good idea?” Jared’s mad enough to make the mud boil. “I just didn’t think he’d do something like this. He knows what Tristan did. It’s like none of that has mattered.”

Misha nods, listening, as he’s been doing all morning.

“I can’t even start thinking about my brother. Does he think just because he moved here from Anaheim that I’ll suddenly forgive him? Or you know, just because he’s friends with Jensen that seals the deal? And! The kids! Does he seriously expect to know them? Can you imagine me introducing them? ‘Kids, this is your uncle. He hasn’t been around much because when I was pregnant with you he was a terrible person and probably still is if I know him, so just letting you know!’”

Forget boiling. This mud is toast.

“I keep having flashbacks of living in that apartment. Sleeping on the couch. Listening to him bang anything that walked in his room. Or how he’d never give me money to buy groceries but then he’d eat it all the same. Or that time I was puking in the bathroom and he banged on the door to stop, because you know, it kills the mood. Or the time we got into it and he shoved me down. Or when I told him I was pregnant and he just… he said the worst shit about Milo.”

That name.

All of these memories.

Texas in the distance. Anaheim in the distance. But now they’re both here--front and center--all because Tristan has decided it’s convenient for him to be involved.

“I _know_ my brother,” Jared continues, eyes closed. “And I _know_ Jensen. He’s getting the special from Tristan and doesn’t know it. Tristan will smile, sing, hell, he’ll just charm the god damn pants off people. But when shit gets real?” Eyes open, looking up towards the ceiling, he lets go of the breath he’s been holding. “He leaves. And no one can change that.”

 

Misha listens.

Before their massage appointment, he hugs Jared, squeezing tight.

“You made it,” he says, plain and clear. “You left when it was hard, when you were afraid, and when you had no idea what would happen. And for that, dearest friend, I need to say: good job.”

He did good by leaving.

Every muscle, nerve, and bone repeats the message: he did good by leaving.

Why can’t the same be said about his brother.

 

Texans see the world differently than any other people. There’s Texas.

And not Texas.

Jared spent hours of his childhood in the not Texas of his mind. Where was he when people pointed and whispered at him and Tristan for looking so much alike? Not Texas. Where was he when he was hiding behind the forest green recliner in the living room, watching his parents’ shadows, absorbing every shout, curse, and slap? Not Texas. Where was he when he pinpointed the exact moment his body learned how to register the taste of his blood mixed with dirt? Not Texas. Where was he when Tristan no longer wanted to be seen with him, because the stares, the pointed fingers, the whispers, the superstitions, the accusations accumulated into a tornado he no longer felt like seeking shelter from? Not Texas. Where was he every night his body fell into bed, heavier than all the boxes he unpacked at the Texaco after school for pocket money--combined? Not Texas. Where was he every single day, week, month, year turned into the same old scenery, continued as the same old story, became new bruises, slurs, Bible verses imprinted into the tissue of his lungs so he could breathe the word and work of the Lord? Where was he when nothing, day after dusty, dirty, broken screen door day changed? Where was he when he snuck out on balmy summer nights and climbed the water tower to sit there and look out at life from a different perspective?

Where was he in the solitary night.

Stunning in pain.

Resilient in his loneliness.

Laid out on the grass, underneath the moon, tangled up in blue.

Laid out on the grass, underneath the moon, tangled up in blue.

Laid out on the grass, underneath the moon, tangled up in blue, he remembers Jensen saying, “Baby, don’t move. Just let me look at you. Just like this now.” He held up his hands in the shape of a camera and took a snapshot so he’d always remember that moment, before it faded away, into one of those Holy Days.

Underneath the moon, with the radio playing in their own backyard, tangled up in blue.

Where was he?

Not Texas.

 

In the kitchen--any kitchen--Jared commands.

He assesses the ingredients on hand, the quality, the quantity. This isn’t a hobby anymore. It’s not one or two pans in the oven; it’s three or four dozen airy, opulent, celebrated, sublime, frosted treats.

Gourmet. Handmade. Infused. Rich. Classic. Coated. Creamy. Marbled. Warm.

Baking requires more than following a recipe.

Scooping, measuring, mixing creates a synergy, and something beyond the list of ingredients emerges. The pulse of creation, within a mixer or under hands, feels alive and important. And it need not be solitary. Little hands can stir, taste test, pour batter, frost, and add toppings. They might not know the batter contains shredded vegetables or understand that Jared makes everything from scratch, but baking is always a fun activity with mommy.

Jared bakes all of their birthday cakes. With seven people in their household, plus the Grandmas, Rhonda, and family friends--Jared utilizes these opportunities to try new recipes.

He baked five inch vanilla cakes for the kids’ first birthdays from a parenting magazine recipe. Over the years, he’s adjusted the recipe, perfecting it so that the kids still get their own individual cakes.

But their first cakes.

It just seemed like something important. Each cake was made out of a child-friendly vanilla batter, but he modified each one a smidge. Hailey’s had more carrots, Kaylee’s had a touch more applesauce, and Bailey’s had banana instead of the applesauce. The frostings were also different, pink roses for the girls and blue balloons for Bailey.

On the backyard patio, with adults gathered around their highchairs, the babies set about to enjoying their cakes. The girls dove right in, Hailey first, poking at the frosting, giggling, and proceeding to stick their chubby little hands directly into the center of each cake. Within seconds they were both covered--two happy, wiggling smears of pink. No assistance was needed at all for cake to get everywhere but their mouths.

Bailey, however, held back.

He looked at the concoction his parents had placed before him and tilted his head. What was it? It didn’t look at all like cereal or yogurt or any of the foods regularly fed to him. His hands hovered above the cake but never made contact. What was he supposed to do? The expression of confusion and disdain for the object in front of him was priceless.

“He hates it,” Jared had gasped. “He totally hates it.”

“He doesn’t hate it,” Jensen laughed. “He’s a baby. He doesn’t know what it is.”

“That didn’t stop the girls!”

“Yeah, well, see how they handle things when they’re teenagers. That’s gonna be fun.”

“Don’t you dare bring that up, Jen. Look at him. He’s about to cry.”

“Easy.” Jensen placed a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “Remember--you getting worked up definitely makes him antsy. He doesn’t hate it. He just… needs a little help.”

“O-okay, but don’t smash it in his face. You’ll traumatize him.”

“I won’t, I won’t.”

Jensen approached Bailey with care, murmuring, “Hey, pal, let me help. We got this. Here we go.” He crouched down, eye-level to Bailey, and telegraphed every movement. The whole world revolved around Bailey in those few minutes. Jensen took his hands--just a fraction of the size of his own--and together, they gently, carefully touched the cake. Bailey looked at Jensen in wonder and slight frustration--what was the point?

Letting go, Jensen smiled and provided an example. He smeared frosting all over his face.

“See? C’mon, buddy. You can do it.”

Bailey looked around at a few adults. He waited a few seconds for someone to step forward and put a stop to the nonsense. When that moment did not arrive, his brow furrowed and he stared at his messy, sticky hands. After a minute, he gingerly placed a hand to his nose.

“Alright, that’s the stuff,” Jensen laughed. “You want the Kodak moment, Jared? Get ready.”

Sliding his hand under the cake platter, Jensen once again crouched to Bailey’s eye-level. Blue eyes met green. A spark of understanding showed in the birthday boy’s expression: he was not amused.

Jensen smashed his face into the cake first.

Frosting dripping from his eyebrows, nose, and chin, Jensen waved for the onslaught of pictures and video recordings. Then one, two, three, and Bailey had his first birthday cake--pressed with the greatest of care to his chubby, angry little face.

He didn’t cry, but he wasn’t exactly happy with anyone the entire rest of the night.

But the pictures came out fantastic.

There’s one Misha took, from the side, which shows Jensen mid-laugh, his eyes crinkling, lashes low, face covered in cake, and mouth open in one big grin, mischievous tongue peeking out.

This--Jared thinks to himself, settling into the couch for a second night of terrible sleep--is a good man.

But even a good man makes mistakes.

 

_if you show_

_someone the sun in your bones_

_and they reject you_

_you must remember._

_they hurt themselves this very same way._

_\--unable_

 

The kids are six now.

They still get individual birthday cakes, but this past April, they were way too cool to have smash cakes. Themes were demanded. Specific color candles and rainbow batter were two demands added at the last minute, after a classmate brought in rainbow cake with edible glitter sparkles.

Each cake that Jared made had the same base batter from that recipe he found back when he was a newbie parent. Back before he fully understood the phrase ‘endurance parenting,’ before he could add wrestling toddlers into outfit after outfit because of spills, mud, spit, blood, puke, and frog water onto his resume, before he became staggeringly intimate with the hours of two, four, four fifteen, and five forty-five in the morning. Way before he comprehended toddler babble and conversation. Way before he was getting himself emotionally ready to send the three of them off into The Big New World of First Grade.

But each cake was different.

That’s the way it’s always been.

Back when he was trying not to puke on Jensen’s shoes (again) at Storybook. Back when he curled up on the couch in the living room of that one room apartment and learned what each one of them felt like. Back when he thought he’d have to watch his dreams from a distance.

Who knew.

Jared makes his way, alone, in the quiet of this Sunday evening. Another Santa Monica sunset on the pier, and the breeze from the ocean issues a challenge: how did he ever breathe without it?

Tristan looks too thin.

They are as they were before: identically different.

_if_

_the ocean_

_can calm itself_

_so can you._

_we_

_are both_

_salt water_

_mixed_

_with_

_air._

_\--meditation_

He’s tan and lean and restless and broad and there. And all of that conflict and hurt and resentment and distrust and guarded apprehension--that’s here, too. It’s here in Jared’s filled out, grown into form, in the splash of color across his face from afternoons outside with the kids. It’s here in his jeans with the crayon on the thighs and rips in the hems, and in his swept up hair because he never has time to style it these days, and in the lines of his face that have escaped hardness but never forgot hardship.

_all that was_

_taken_

_from me_

_is still here._

_\--root_

Fuck.

_i look for you_

_in the middle of the light_

_in the west of the day._

_in the memory of the water._

_\--untitled_

“Tristan.”

_the wounds have changed me_

_i am so soft with scars_

_my skin_

_breathes and beats stars._

_\--untitled_

He takes a seat on the pier, distance between them, sons of a Bible quoting man.

“Hey,” Tristan breathes, his voice shaky, eyes rimmed red.

There’s no more Bible in Jared’s life. Just post-it notes he finds on the coffee table, on the fridge, and tucked inside his favorite pair of shoes for walks on the pier.

“I am angry at you. I have been angry at you for the longest time and I don’t know how to fix that. I’m angry that you involved Jensen and that you made him promise not to tell me--no, let me finish. He didn’t tell me that, I figured it out on my own. Jensen doesn’t keep secrets from me. And _you_? You’re not a secret. You’re a grown man and you took the easy way out. Again. So from now on, you got something to say to me, you say it right to me and you leave Jensen and my family out of it.”

Texaco. Water tower. Ghost town.

“Y’all may have started this, but Tristan, I chose to be here. And I’m not gonna shy away from ending this if I see you got an angle. I won’t tolerate it. At all.”

Not Texas. It’s better than he could have ever dreamed.

“You’ve caused a rift in my relationship. So until I can figure that out, I’m gonna ask that you keep yourself to me and take a break from your friendship with Jensen. And I’m gonna ask him that he give me time to process this the way _I_ want, without you involved.”

Ultimatums suck.

“If you fuck this up, that’s it. Do you understand?”

Roughly brushing tears away from his eyes, Tristan nods. He inhales and exhales in overworked bursts. “Yeah. I-I’m sorry.”

Standing up, Jared brushes sand off himself.

“I don’t need you to be sorry.” Hazel eyes that match his own look up, weathered and worn. “I need you to fix it.”

Before he leaves, Jared places a business card down on the pier, his cell phone number circled, a date, time, and place written underneath it. This is how it’s going to be, if it’s going to be at all.

_stay soft. it looks beautiful on you._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> *Halloween by Preservation Hall Jazz Band  
> *Sugar Blues by Preservation Hall Jazz Band  
> *Edge by Sylvia Plath  
> *poems by Nayyirah Waheed  
> *cake scene inspired by Mr. M, the cutest one year old I know
> 
> Phew! Finally getting this out to y'all. Thank you, as ever, to my betas J and T, who continuously put up with me at all hours of the day and night. 
> 
> There's a lot here. I know most of it's in Jensen's pov, but I tried my best to give Jared's shorter part appropriate oomph. Leave me comments, talk to me about things, interaction with y'all is love. <3
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
